


It's Treasure to Me

by smithy_of_words



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Based on Junk Items, Drabbles, F/F, Freya Hawke, Gen, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-14
Updated: 2018-03-06
Packaged: 2018-04-09 06:36:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 9,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4337711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smithy_of_words/pseuds/smithy_of_words
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Short tories and drabbles primarily about Merrill and my Female Hawke (Freya), and others later, based on the often funny Junk Items from DA2.<br/>(Non-beta'd).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Book of Suggestive Caricature (F!Hawke/Merrill)

“Ma vhenan, can we leave soon? The stone is so cold here, and I’d rather we not run into any more giant spiders on the way down.”

Freya Hawke was a bit preoccupied, crouched in a tiny crevice, tinkering with the lock on a closed trunk.

Lockpicks in hand, and biting her lip in concentration, she waited to hear the click of the tumblers and feel the small shift that indicated she had succeeded. 

Merrill shook Freya’s shoulder, as a nervous child might.

“Can we take our treasure and look at it outside? Even Sundermount would be more welcoming than it is in here.”

Freya dug around inside the trunk, tossing pebbles and useless bits and pieces to the side. She was about to stop looking when she raised her eyebrows.

What was it? A book?

A book it was, indeed. Freya stood and lifted it gently from its container, removed the cloth tucked around it, and brushed the dirt from the cover.

In very old and faint lettering, she read slowly, “ The…Book of Suggestive Caricature? I think that’s what it says. This writing is obsolete.”

She turned to talk to Merrill, “My father taught me how to read, and mother taught me some of the older scripts she learnt as a young girl from her tutors, but this looks very strange, indeed. Maybe it’s from Tevinter?”

Merrill’s eyes widened, “Or, maybe it’s Dalish in origin.”

Freya nodded, brow furled, “That it could be. Either way, let’s take it home. Perhaps Varric and Isabela will want to take a look at its…contents.”

Merrill’s face flushed when she looked at the cover. It also featured various individuals in states of undress.

“Ahem…Ma vhenan, that sounds lovely, and I’m sure it would make a good present for them, but…do you think…do you think we could look at it together…tonight…first?”

Freya slung her sack over her shoulder, re-positioning her bow for comfort, and stopped suddenly, realizing the implication of Merrill’s words.

Then it was Hawke’s turn to flush a bit (hard to see in the dark and dank cave, and even more so on Freya’s skin that looked like copper).

Her voice raised in pitch a bit, “Yes…I think we can manage that. I’ll have to bathe first, however. I think I just stepped in something.”

Merrill giggled and held onto Freya’s arm.

“Maybe I can help with that, too.”

The two left the small cave, littered with spider corpses, and made their way toward the watery light coming in the entrance. Merrill’s voice echoed off the walls, as she enthused about some new Orlesian soaps Isabela had bought her for her name day.


	2. Pouch of Pebbles (F!Hawke/Merrill)

“Merrill, I found this today, you know, in between fighting giant spiders and avoiding stepping in questionable… things. I thought maybe you’d like it… well, more than a sylvanwood ring anyhow.”

Freya produced a small pouch from her pocket. It was small, no bigger than an egg, but made of red velvet, with a silk drawstring.   
Merrill’s eyes lit up. 

  
“Ma vhenan, thank you! It’s so beautiful. Oh, what’s this then?”  
She tugged the strings and opened the pouch, spilling the small pebbles into her outstretched hand. All different kinds were there, some smooth and flat, others shiny and colorful--more jagged. 

Merrill flopped down quickly onto their Hightown mansion’s foyer floor, casting the small stones near the hearth.   
“Look, Hawke! See how the light from the fire makes them shine? This is a true treasure. I can’t wait to tell Isabela.”  
Freya smiled until her cheeks ached.


	3. Rotted Wooden Peg Leg (Isabela/Merrill)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a short story (a little under 400 words) for one of my friends on tumblr, nalathequeen2186. : )  
> Unbeta'd as usual, let me know if you're interested.

“What is it? Oh, tell me!” Merrill said, hands covering her eyes.

Isabela’s voice called from across the room, echoing slightly, where she was digging through her trunks.

“I can’t, Kitten,” she grunted, shifting through some items, “it wouldn’t be a surprise that way.”

Merrill sighed, waiting impatiently.

Finally, Isabela found what she was looking for with an, “Ah-ha! Got it!”

Merrill was even more excited now, and shifted back and forth from one foot to the other.

Isabela smiled, and tip-toed over in front of the elf, putting her gift behind her back.

 “No peeking. Just put out your hands with your palms up, toward the ceiling…now lower…toward me. Good.”

Merrill did as she was told, and resisted the urge to look.

Isabela produced a wooden item and placed it gently in Merrill’s hands, curving Merrill’s fingers around its shape.

She grinned, “Now, you have to guess what it is.”

Merrill’s brows furrowed in concentration, “Hmm…it’s made of wood. Is it a staff?”

Isabela laughed, “No, you have two more guesses.”

Merrill turned the object in her fingers, running her hands along the grooves.

“Um…is it a crossbow stock?”

The pirate snorted, “You’ve been spending far too much time with Varric.”

“Oh…so only one guess left? Well, seeing as it’s you…something dirty?”

Isabela burst out laughing, “No, Kitten! Though, that would’ve been priceless…open your eyes.”

Merrill did and saw…a stump of wood, like a tavern stool’s leg, but all splintered and weathered.

She looked up at Isabela, eyebrows raised in confusion.

Isabela chucked at the younger woman’s startled response.

“It’s a wooden peg leg, darling, like some pirates have. You mentioned you like… ‘pirate-y’ things, so I thought you’d like this.”

Merrill’s eyes widened and she grinned, “Oh, yes! I had forgotten we’d spoken of that. I love it!”

She wrapped her arms around Isabela in a huge bear hug.

“Can I try it on?”

“Well, you’d need to be missing your foot and part of your leg first, Merrill.”

“Oh yes, I suppose I would, wouldn’t I? Well, I’ll just place it by my mirror then.”

It was Isabela’s turn to look confused, “Why there?”

Merrill turned and smiled softly, “Because it’s a special gift--one of my treasures.”


	4. Frayed Woolen Shawl (F!Hawke/Merrill)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merrill climbs the vhenadahl to retrieve something precious of Arianni's. Suggested by Nalathequeen2186 on tumblr.

 

   It was Winter, and Kirkwall was in the grips of one of the worst storms she had experienced in months; only the bravest souls went outside, and only if it was strictly necessary.  The market stalls were closed and every piece of extra wood had been utilized as boards to cover windows from the wind, rain, and any flying objects.

 

So, naturally, Merrill was climbing the _vhenadahl_ in the alienage.

 

   Freya Hawke had gotten caught up in the storm on her way to visit the elf while she attempted to fix her mirror. The two were cozy and buttoned-up in Merrill’s quarters, when the sound of a woman yelling could be heard over the howling wind.

Freya and Merrill scarcely allowed a beat to pass between them before they ran to the door to peer out.  There was Arianni--hand pressed to her mouth in shock and frustration.  Before Freya could get out a, “What is she doing out--,” Merrill had rushed into the street, leaving the heavy door to swing open in her wake. Hawke frowned in frustration, but had no choice but to follow her wayward love.

   Braving the elements, they clasped hands and marched forward, hunched against the battering inclement weather that threatened to drown them all—or so it seemed.

   Finally, after what seemed like minutes, Merrill held onto Arianni’s shoulders, yelling, “Are you all right? It’s too dangerous out here. We need to get inside now!”

Arianni shook her head, wild-eyed, wordlessly pointing at the _vhenadahl_.  Freya squinted her eyes hard, brows furrowed, then she saw something…

 

What appeared to be a frayed woolen shawl was stuck in its upper branches, flying in the wind like a pennant.

Freya turned to Arianni, “You won’t go in because it got stuck up there?”

   Arianni nodded furiously.

“I know it’s not wise, but I must devise a way to get that back. It’s all I have left of what the Keeper gave me before I came here!”

Freya felt like shaking the woman. It was just a piece of clothing! Surely her life was worth more.

She just about said as much, when Merrill turned to face the tree.

   Before any more words could pass between them, Merrill launched herself into a sprint toward the _vhenadahl’s_ trunk.  Arianni and Freya held each other fast, partly due to their surprise, but also because the winds had started up again, blowing more fiercely than ever.

 

Merrill set her jaw, and raised her hands to the sky.

Freya saw blue light pouring forth from between the cracks in the dirt—lyrium, she supposed it was.

Merrill’s brow furrowed in intense concentration, as if she was attempting to lift an entire home from its foundations.  Arianni just blinked--eyes wide; she hadn’t seen such magic since she left the Dalish long ago. It was a Keeper’s magic.

Great vines came from the ground, as if conjured from thin air, and wrapped around the base of the tree, so as to make small footholds.

   Freya grinned at Arianni’s awe-stricken face. She was used to seeing Merrill’s magic in battle, but she supposed her mouth might have gaped open, much as the woman’s did, when she first witnessed it.

Merrill wasn’t even using her staff.

Hawke smiled to herself, proud of the woman she loved.

 

   Merrill seemed to leap easily from one branch to the next, as if the driving rain had not made the surfaces slippery at all.  And almost as quickly as she had scaled the tall tree, she was descending, the shawl clenched tightly in her hands.  With barely a flick of her wrist, the vines glowed a forest green, then blue, then receded back into the soil. It was as if they’d never been there at all.

   Merrill nearly strutted back to Arianni and Hawke—a pale imitation of Isabela’s swagger, but with the same underlying confidence.

Arianni grinned, and could not stop saying, “Thank you, oh, thank you so very much,” over and over.  The prim woman even threw her arms around Merrill, and Hawke too, crushing them all into a soaking wet hug.

   Freya looked up at the sky, which was growing even impossibly darker by the second.

“I’m happy everything worked out, but we have to get to shelter now!”

   Arianni nodded quickly, jumping at the distant clap of thunder.

“Come back with me! I’ll fix us all some tea and biscuits. It’s the least I can do.”

   The three ran as fast as they could back across the square to Arianni’s small home.

As soon as the door was shut behind them, they could breathe a sigh of relief.

 

Merrill tried to take a step forward, but squeaked, “Oh, _lethallan_ , we’re making a mess of your floor!”

 

   Arianni smiled, still clutching the sopping shawl, as if it would fly away again. She shook her head.

“I’ll stoke the fire and put on my kettle. If you like, I have dry clothes on that trunk in the corner. I just did the washing right before this awful storm made landfall. Merrill, dear, you can fix your puddle with magic, correct?”

   Merrill grinned, “Of course! I can even fix the hole in your thatching, too, if you’d like.”

   Freya bent lower, mouth level with Merrill’s ears, “Isn’t that the hole you made when you tried to practice lighting a fire indoors last month?”

   Arianni must have overheard the comment because she giggled softly into the back of her hand, turning to brew the tea.

Hawke’s copper skin flushed a bit, and she cleared her throat.

   “I think I can thatch it once the rain clears up...”

She was interrupted by another clap of thunder and bright flash seeping around the doorframe.

“Hopefully sooner rather than later…I patched many holes back in Lothering.”

   Arianni’s eyes sparkled.

“Come, please. Once we get dried off, let’s share some stories of life back in Ferelden.”

Freya nodded her thanks, and added, “That’s very kind of you, Arianni. This should be an entertaining evening, indeed.”

 

   Merrill began removing her wet tunic, beginning to crow already.

“Oh, that’s a wonderful idea! You’ll never believe what happened once…”

 

 

 


	5. Silver Crossguard (Fenris/F!Hawke--friendship)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke finds a way to give something from Kirkwall to Fenris as a way to welcome him to his new home.

 

     “Fenris…it’s me,” Freya Hawke called out as she peeked around the now open door.

The only reply was the creaking hinges and floorboards beneath her feet.

That was strange—she could’ve sworn that she saw him enter his home.

     “H-hello,” she timidly stepped a few more paces forward into the foyer, “Are you home?”

She was about to call out again before leaving when she heard the sound of breaking glass.

Freya rolled her eyes; no one in their right mind would break into a house this filled with the remnants of old corpses. It had to be him.

She nimbly darted up the stairs, knocking on the doorframe of the sitting room.

     “Is it all right if I come in?”

      Fenris turned around, face flushed.

So, he was drunk again. That seemed to be happening more and more often.

He smiled slightly, “Ah, my friend! What comes? Enter, enter…I found another bottle of a most excellent vintage in the cellar.”

     Freya grinned, “Well, you don’t have to ask me twice.”

She walked over to a free armchair, making sure to side-step the shards of glass in her way.

     “Something…bothering you?,” she arched an eyebrow.

     Fenris sighed loudly, rubbing his eyes, “It’s my sword. I lost my footing in the last battle, and I fear it cannot be repaired.”

     Freya nodded, remembering, “I saw that. There are other swords, you know. I’m pretty sure the market has a stall just for them, actually.”

Fenris flopped down in a heap in the seat next to her.

     “I…am aware of that. It’s not that I am unable to buy a new sword. It’s just…this is the sword that has seen me through so many trials. It’s the sword I had when I escaped from Denarius for the second time, when I secured passage to Kirkwall, and when…when I met you.”

     Freya smiled, “Yes. You did look rather impressive, lugging that massive thing about.”

     “I no longer look impressive?” Fenris stopped to take a swig of wine, some of which dripped down his chin.

Hawke smirked, wiping off the excess wine from his face with her coat sleeve.

     “Well, you look pretty damn pitiful like that.”

     Her smiled softened somewhat, “…but all joking aside, I understand what you mean. The first time that my father’s bow snapped was right after I came to Kirkwall. I was working for Athenril, the elven smuggler woman down by the docks, and we were doing something—fighting Carta dwarves or something, and it just broke. It was the last item I had that belonged to my father.  Nobody understood why I was crying about a shipment of contraband cheeses…well, except Bethany—and now you, I suppose.”

Fenris blinked at her, wide-eyed.

     “I never expected anyone to understand.”

Freya snorted, taking the bottle of wine from his hands and drinking from it herself.

She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand;

     “Hah, well I’m glad that you thought so highly of me.”

Fenris opened his mouth, as if to clarify that he meant no offense, but Hawke stopped him, pulling a piece of cloth from her satchel.

She placed it in his hands and waited.

He looked down at the cloth—it was heavy.

Hawke took another drink from the bottle.

     “I didn’t just give you a piece of cloth, Fenris. Open it.”

He folded the edges back and saw a long silver bar with a hollow center. He raised his eyebrows.

     “This is…”

     “A new crossguard, yes, I know,” Freya grinned, “I picked it up from a merchant in the market just down the street--you know, where they sell things other than wine.”

Fenris could have rolled his eyes or made a sarcastic comment, but his mouth just gaped slightly.

When he did speak, his words were slow, either from careful thought—or maybe just the drink.

     “Thank you, Hawke. This means a great deal to me. Perhaps I can use it to start fixing my sword, if it can be salvaged.”

     Freya’s eyes crinkled as she smiled back at him, “I’m so glad you approve. I thought it could—well, I thought it could be part of your new life here. You know, with us…with your friends, if you can call us that yet.”

     “Yes, I think I can.”


	6. Stale Biscuit (F!Hawke/Merrill)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freya Hawke nervously tries to prepare an afternoon tea to impress Merrill. Things never go according to plan.

 

     Freya Hawke was trying to do too many things at once, and thus didn’t do any of them very successfully: her long dark brown hair was partially pulled back with a ribbon, but messy sections seemed to poke out every which way; she had only one trouser leg on, while the other flopped around, all bunched up under her feet while she tried to shuffle around quickly; and her tunic was haphazardly thrown on, buttoned up incorrectly, so that one side of the cloth was higher than the other.

     Orana did all she could to keep up with her mistress while also making sure she didn’t trip and break any limbs, or her mother’s heirloom vase that rested precariously near the banister.  Finally, it got to be too much even for the quiet young woman. She said, quietly at first, then louder when Freya didn’t hear her, “Mistress! Please, stop.”

     Hawke blinked a few times, as if some spell had been broken, “I…yes?”

     Orana smiled softly, “I know that you are fretting about Lady Merrill coming over today, Mistress, since she has been away spending more time on her...project recently. If I may say, Mistress, if you’re worried about making a good impression, perhaps allow me to help dress you? I'm sure whatever you serve will be lovely, too.”

     Freya noticed the still-hesitant nature Orana had when she spoke.  The girl was bolder by far than she had been when she first arrived at the Hawke estate, but she still retained the nervous and quiet nature of someone who didn’t know if it was acceptable to speak or act unbidden. She tried to smile down at her with what she hoped was a reassuring look.

     “Yes, thank you, Orana. That would be lovely. You are kind to ask.”

     With that Freya moved to sit down in a large armchair in the foyer, allowing Orana to brush and replait her hair, while she properly pulled up her trousers and rebuttoned her tunic.

     Now that she wasn’t fluttering around so nervously, Freya could take a deep breath and finish straightening up for Merrill’s anticipated arrival for afternoon tea. Orana smiled softly to see her mistress aimlessly flit about the table, muttering about if the plates matched the kettle, or if the runner clashed with the napkins; evidently more of Leandra Hawke’s mannerisms had rubbed off on her eldest child than she had thought.

_It would be nice if you could see her now_ , mused Orana, _I think you would be pleased._ She hoped that somehow her thoughts made it to the Maker—or to his side, at least.

     Bodahn called from the entryway, “I believe Lady Merrill is at the door, shall I show her in?”

     Freya’s face snapped up sharply, a bit flushed, “Ah, she’s early! Yes, yes, show her in, please.”

\---

     Later when everyone sat down to afternoon tea, Hawke rose to go fetch the refreshments from the kitchen. (Orana had made a fuss at first, but Freya insisted that she serve guests at Sunday tea, at least—Bodahn, Sandal, and Orana included.)

     Of course, the tea was prepared, but in her haste she had forgotten all about making the small sandwiches Merrill liked, or the sweet rolls, or…Maker’s breath! All that was left were stale biscuits from two weeks prior that she had completely forgotten about!

     Orana called into the kitchen when she hadn’t heard anything for a minute or two, then came in to see what was going on. On the floor was Freya Hawke, champion of Kirkwall, curled into a ball and laughing so hard that she was silently shaking, tears streaming down her face.

     Orana shook her head with a chuckle.

_Maybe she doesn’t take after you quite so well as I thought_.


	7. Bottle of Rotgut (Isabela/F!Hawke)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freya Hawke is in shock after the sudden death of her mother, Leandra. Isabela comes over with something to try to cheer her up.

     Freya Hawke rolled out of bed for the first time in days. 

     Her hair poked out at odd angles, and her eyes were red from weeping.

     Orana had come in to empty her chamber pot, but the food she had left remained untouched, as it had done for days now since her mistress' mother hadn't returned home.

     Hawke bent down to where the girl had left the tray and picked up the now-stale bread. She took a bite and chewed--it didn't taste like anything. She wondered if food would ever seem to taste like anything again. She took another bite and recalled how she felt after her father's death. For weeks she could barely consume anything but barley water and some porridge. She lost so much weight that her mother had to call a healer to make a special draught to increase her appetite. But Hawke knew no such healers in Kirkwall, aside from Anders...and _besides_ , she thought, _I don't care if I waste away now. I've failed everyone. There's nothing left for me here._

     Suddenly, a small timid knock came from the large oak door to her chamber.

     Hawke stood and wiped at her eyes furiously, willing herself to look the least bit presentable.

     "Come in," she tried not to croak, but her voice was weak from disuse.

     Orana opened the door and peaked around it, calling softly.

     "Mistress? The lady Isabela is here to see you. I know you didn't want visitors. Shall I send her away?"

     Hawke thought for a moment. Did she really want anyone to see her like this?

     But she nodded, to Orana's--and her own--surprise.

 

     Freya sat on the bed, rearranging her crimson robes to look less like she'd been sleeping in them for days. She retied her hair up behind her head so it didn't look quite as matted either.

 

     Usually when Isabela entered a room, everyone knew, and she liked it that way. But she was just as quiet as Orana for once, only opening and closing the door with a faint click, and padding across the rug to sit beside Freya on her bed.

     "Hey, sweetheart. How are you holding up?" She tried to sound cheerful.

     Hawke tried to sit up straighter-- _fix your posture_ , she heard her mother say.

     "I'm...It's..." She couldn't seem to get the words out before her eyes started to shine with tears again.

     Isabela hummed low, like she was calming a small child from a nightmare. She took Hawke in her arms and tucked the younger woman under her chin, rocking her back and forth slightly.

     "Shh...it's okay, sweet thing. I'm here. It's all right. You just let it all out."

 

     The two sat in silence, Hawke's sniffles lessening a bit after a few minutes.

     She didn't bother to pull out a handkerchief, just rubbed her nose on the back of her hand.

     "Sorry, that was disgusting," she chuckled half-heartedly, "I don't know what you must think of me now."

     Isabela promptly tore a shred of cloth from her bandana and gently used it to wipe the tears and snot off Freya's face.

     "It's all right. When my mother sold me, and I was sent to my late lord husband, I cried bitterly for days on the journey. I wouldn't touch food or water, and I must've looked quite a sight. I didn't even know if my betrothed would want me with how I must've seemed. So...the point is, I get it. And the servants couldn't cheer me then, so I won't try to cheer you now."

     Freya blew her nose in the beautiful linen, "Thank you, Isabela. I know you understand. Maker, this is just...such a nightmare."

     Isabela rubbed small circles on her friend's back, "I know, sweet thing. I wish I could wake you up. But, if you're keen, I brought something I thought you might like."

     She produced a small amber glass bottle from the leather pouch on her belt.

     Freya cocked her head to the side, "What is that? A draught of some kind?"

     Isabela laughed loudly, "You could say that, I suppose. No, it is nothing but Kirkwall's finest rotgut whiskey, and before you ask, I'm not telling you where I found it. You'll never drink it otherwise."

     Freya sniffed again, chuckling, "Isabela, that's a very...nice thought, but you know I can't hold my liquor."

     Isabela hooted, "I know, you only ever have that watered down piss-ale from the Hanged Man. But this will _really_ take your mind off things. Plus, now I'll have more information to blackmail you with to all your fancy Hightown friends."

     Hawke flushed, shoving her playfully, " _Okay_ , okay. I could do with the distraction. Just promise this won't end up in one of You and Varric's awful stories. People around here think that I routinely walk the streets with my small-clothes on my head."

     Isabela giggled, "True, that _was_ only once, but I would pay two whole sovereigns to see that again."

     "Well, don't push your luck."

 

\---

 

     Orana was adding logs to the fire in the foyer when she heard shrieks coming from upstairs.

_That pirate!_ Her thoughts raced frantically, _What if she was hurting her mistress?_

     She ran up the stairs as fast as her legs could carry her and threw open the door.

     Inside the bedroom the Champion of Kirkwall and the pirate self-styled "Queen of the Seas" were doubled over with laughter on the floor, gasping for air.

     A new kind of tears--ones of joy--spilled own Freya's cheeks as she positively howled.

     Isabela clutched her sides, grinning.

     Orana backed away slowly, closing the door with a soft smile.


	8. Cracked Templar Insignia (General)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freya saves a girl in the Gallows from a Templar and rushes to get her from the city.

 

 

     "No, please, Ser! I haven't done any blood magic, I swear it. Don't hurt me!"

     The small girl in Circle robes was cowering in the corner of the Gallows.

     Everyone could see the Templar standing over her, barking threats, and the way the child crumpled to the ground, sobbing.

     But only Hawke seemed to be perturbed by anything that was going on.

     The other mages around were either Tranquil, or too afraid of bringing the wrath of the Templars against themselves.

 

     The man in plate-mail stepped ever closer, the flaming Sword of Mercy carved in his armor hanging over the girl like it did Andraste, so many years ago.

     His sword-arm went to the hilt of his blade, and Hawke saw it all, as if time had been slowed down.

 

     She pulled an arrow from her quiver and nocked it, pulling the bowstring back to its full draw.

     She watched, took a deep breath, and held it...

     The Templar pulled the sword from his scabbard, and lifted it above his head, readying himself for the killing blow.

     And just as he started to swing down, Freya Hawke let her arrow loose.

 

     The man only heard a whistle before he fell forward, dead--an arrow embedded in his back

     Freya hurried over, pushing the man away from the still-crying child.

     "It's okay. He can't hurt you now. But we have to go," She held her hands out to the child, "Quickly now, before the others come."

     The girl stared, wide-eyed, but managed a nod.

     Hawke helped her to her feet and quickly bent down to pull the now-broken insignia from the Templar's bracer--cracked from the force of his body hitting the ground.

     She shoved it into the girl's shaking hands. "Here, take this. So you never stop running. Come now."

     Freya pulled the girl into her arms and helped her climb onto her back.

 

     Once she had settled her weight, Hawke broke into a run, dashing down alleyways and corridors--taking the streets where the fewest guards and Templars patrolled.

     She huffed along, the girl bouncing back and forth with her strides, but didn't stop until she reached the Hanged Man. She put the child down and told her to wait in the corner.

     The girl nodded and sat on an overturned crate, still clutching the metal insignia in her hands, white-knuckled.

 

     Freya swept into the backroom, nearly knocking Varric right over.

     The dwarf saw her flushed face, sweat, and wild-eyes and nodded.

     "Who are you running from this time?"

     Freya finally realized the extent of what she'd done. She swallowed, her mouth suddenly bone dry.

     "I killed a Templar in the Gallows. He was going to kill a girl. And I didn't know what to do, but I couldn't let it happen, so I killed him." She let the words tumble from her mouth. "So I brought her here."

     Varric's raised his eyebrows seemingly to the ceiling. "Wait, you brought her _here?_ Did you hit your head? She can't be seen here. Do you know how many mages in hiding frequent this place?"

     Hawke's normally dark olive skin blanched, her golden eyes wide. "Shit. I-I wasn't thinking. Varric, you have to help us, please."

 

     Varric grabbed his coat and hurried down the stairs into the main area of the tavern.

     "Where's the girl?"

     Hawke pointed to the corner, "Just there. M-maybe we can get here to Isabela. She might know someone who can help."

     Varric shook his head, "No. The Templars have been cracking down on every shipment that comes into these ports, even from Isabela's smuggler friends. But I know someone from my old Carta days who may be able to help. Shit, Hawke, you really owe me."

     Freya was still shaken, so she just nodded, "Anything. Just _please_ , get us out of this mess."

 

     Varric knelt down in front of the girl and took her hands gently.

     "Hey, sweetheart. We're going to help you. I bet you're really scared--I would be, too. But we're going to get you out of here, okay? Now," he wiped some tears form the girl's face, "What's your name?"

     "B-Beth," the girl hiccupped.  Freya's fingernails dug into her hands. It was too close for comfort... _Beth._

     Varric smiled reassuringly, "Okay, Beth. I'm going to get you some new clothes so you don't stand out so much, okay? And then we're going to go to the docks and find a lady dwarf with a hood over her face. Her name's Bianca, and frankly, she owes me some favors, so she's going to put you on a ship with lots of boxes, and you're going to leave here, okay?"

     Beth nodded, "Can I go back to my family?"

     Varric's smile fell, "I'm afraid not, sweetheart. They're going to be looking for you there. But I know someone who can keep an eye on you. You won't be able to stay in place for too long, and you'll have to move a lot. But if you do as she says, and keep your head down, you'll be safe."

     The girl threw her arms around him, "Thank you. Oh, thank you. I was so scared."

     Varric got over his initial surprise and patted her on the back.

     He cleared his throat, "Okay, little Beth, now you come with us. And whatever you do, you can't let anyone see that bit of metal you've got there."

     She gripped it fiercely in her hands, staring Freya in the eyes, " _I won't_. They won't see it. But I'll have it--so I never forget."

     Hawke nodded solemnly, "Good girl. Now go...and be safe."

 

     Varric turned to take Beth to find some clothing in one of his many trunks, but Freya held his shoulder tightly.

     "Thank you, Varric. I won't forget the kindness you've shown me."

     He whirled around, putting on a happy face. "It's fine, Hawke. You would've done the same for me. But next time this crowd gets rowdy, I expect the rounds to be on your tab."

     Hawke grinned, her heart nearly fit to bursting with gratitude.

     "You bet."


	9. Tome of the Slumbering Elders (F!Hawke/ Merrill)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merrill comes over to read to Hawke while she's being a drama queen about having a cold.

Freya Hawke sneezed, and the sound echoed throughout the estate.

She was ill, and everyone in the house, and possibly Hightown, knew it.

It wasn’t that she was at death’s door –far from it – rather, she just liked putting on a show and always had done, much to Carver’s chagrin during their childhood.

Bodahn ran around, seemingly at the brink of tearing his hair out in despair, as his Mistress would only consume the most meager of broths.

Freya sighed dramatically as he wiped a cool cloth across her brow. 

“Bodahn, how can I ever thank you? I feel just awful. But rest assured, when I’m well and on my feet again, you’ll have whatever you name.”

“Mistress!” Bodahn’s eyes welled with tears, “You being well again is all the thanks I need.”

 

All of Hightown collectively rolled their eyes.

 

After a few hours had passed, and Freya was drooling happily onto her pillow, there came a timid knock at her door.

It clicked open. 

Dog came trotting in, licking her hands in greeting. 

“Mmm…heh heh. You know I’m ticklish there…" 

Merrill tip-toed into the room, closing the door softly behind her. 

"Oh, lethallan, are you all right? You look pale as a sheet.”

Freya blinked her eyes open in a daze.

“Hmm? A dream? Ah-hem…hello, Merrill.” She wiped her cheek fiercely with the back of her hand.

Dog jumped up onto the bed and curled by her feet with a contented huff.

Merrill smiled softly, producing an old book from behind her back. 

“I know Bodahn was worried my visiting would tax you too much, but I thought you might like some company – or a story.”

A question. 

Freya smiled reassuringly, patting the coverlet beside her with a flourish.

“What marvelous tales have you come to tell me?”

Merrill chuckled a bit, shyly.

“Oh, nothing so grand,” she added, “Your Majesty.”

Freya smiled at Merrill playing along with her little game. 

“Well, I always have time to hear from my subjects, especially the pretty ones.”

Freya winked.

Merrill flushed nearly the same shade as Freya’s feverish face.

“Well, Lethallan. I found this in my trunk. It’s an old book, not very exciting like the stories Varric and Isabela tell, I’m afraid. But I used to love these tales as a child, so I thought they might comfort you.”

There was no more playful tone, just sincerity.

Freya wiped her eyes a bit. 

“Just…ah some effects of the illness. That sounds wonderful, Merrill. Please, make yourself at home. Oh, and I apologize if I fall asleep. I don’t mean to be rude.”

Merrill grinned and settled herself onto the bed.

She picked up the book and showed Hawke the cover, as one might when reading to a child. 

“It says, Tome of the Slumbering Elders. Here we go. ‘In the beginning…’”

 

When Bodahn came up to check on his mistress a bit later, he found both she and 'the lady Merrill’ curled into a small nest of sorts, blankets and pillows everywhere. They breathed softly. Dog snored.

He smiled to himself and closed the door with a click.


	10. Stained Glass Bottle (F!Hawke/Merrill)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merrill and Hawke make their new home away from the chaos and violence that has characterized their lives for so long. Set about 15 years after the events of DAII, so they're probably in their early to mid forties now.

     On a small hill, tucked between two groves of fragrant pine trees, and a short way from a swiftly running stream, Merrill and Freya Hawke made their home. It took a few months of sleeping in dilapidated barns left from the hordes of demons that had plagued Thedas, but the small cottage was finally completed. It was nothing fancy or ornate, but it had a sort of rustic beauty in its own way; a few simple rooms surrounding a central space with a large hearth (enough space for at least three mabaris to sit cozily by the fire), and high exposed wooden beams supporting a well-thatched roof.

     There wasn’t much Hawke remembered now of her father—even his face and the timbre of his voice had largely faded from memory—but somehow, she still could recall his callused hands enfolding hers, guiding them. As a small child, it had almost been enough to make her hope for leaks during a storm, just to see the pride on his face when she deftly fixed the ceiling.

     Now, she felt the same sense of pride and joy radiating from her as she watched Merrill placing wards around the doorway. Hawke only understood a few of the elvish words that her wife was muttering, but could still parse out the meaning; it was a prayer of sorts—Merrill placing within it all her hopes for a bright and safe future.

     When she was done speaking, Merrill closed her eyes and ran her hands down the strong oak door that Hawke had just finished putting into place. The grain of the wood shone with an otherworldly blue glow, then faded to brown.

     The spritely elf turned back to face Hawke. “There, _vhenan._ Shall we go in, then?” She walked over and slipped her small fingers between Hawke’s long ones, and gave her a conspiratorial wink. “…and after all, we do need to break in our new bed. It should be a good break from the bedrolls, I think.”

     Freya just shook with laughter, surprising herself with how it rippled from her belly, through her throat so easily. How many years had it been since she had let herself feel so free? “Yes, my love. I think that’s a marvelous idea. But first…” She picked up Merrill (with a grunt of pain and effort that was not present a decade prior) and swung open the door with her foot, carrying the giggling elf across the threshold.

_“Vhenan!”_ She squeaked. “Is this really necessary?” Merrill’s face still managed to turn beet-red after all the years they had spent together, and she covered her face, despite her laughter.

     Hawke set her down gently in what was to be their kitchen, kissing the top of Merrill’s head with a small smile. “But of course. Didn’t you ever hear of our Ferelden traditions? If a couple is joined in marriage, then whoever is bigger has to carry the smaller one across the threshold of the doorway of their first home together.” She explained, suddenly self-conscious. “Not—not that I think you couldn’t carry me, I just got um…carried away is all. Ah! Sorry, poor word choice.”

     Merrill stood on her tip-toes and pressed a quick kiss to Freya’s lips, smile to smile. “I didn’t know that, but it’s a very sweet gesture.” Her soft features suddenly turned feral as she took Hawke’s hands and walked backward, pulling her wife toward their new bedchamber. “But I…have something decidedly less sweet in mind for you.”

     Hawke let herself be dragged, with a feigned look of shock. “Oh, my word! Am I to be ravished terribly?”

     “Yes, I’m afraid so, my dear. But if it’s all too much, just…lie back and think of Kirkwall.” Merrill lost all pretense of seriousness and started laughing again—this time with a snort thrown in.

     They didn’t bother closing their door behind them; after all, they now lived practically in the middle of nowhere. It felt good, Hawke mused as she let Merrill divest her of her tunic and simple trousers, to not have to worry about the noise, or anyone walking in on them.

_So so good…_

     When their lovemaking was done, Freya was sprawled in a sweaty heap, new sheets partially wrapped around her ankle, and partially on the floor. She drifted off to sleep, her face cradled in the crook of Merrill’s neck. “You smell nice.” A whisper.

     Merrill ran her fingers softly through Hawke’s hair, noticing the few grey strands that had recently appeared. She kissed her temple. “Like us.”

     Outside, the sun shone, and slowly drifted behind the mountains as the afternoon lazily dragged on. When Hawke awoke, it was nearly dusk, the twilight air thick with birdsong and the distant barking of dogs and–she sniffed, “Tea?”

     Merrill backed into the room, holding a small tray with two steaming cups. “Oh,” she grinned, “Finally awake, I see. Perhaps someone was more thoroughly ravished than they thought.”

     “Oh, absolutely. And it was glorious, to be sure.” Hawke tossed the tangled mess of bed sheets off and wriggled her bottom back, sitting with her back flush against the headboard.

     “Well,” Merrill lightly placed the tray on the bed, “I’m certainly pleased. And I thought you might like some refreshment.” She quirked her mouth into a kind of frown, “I’m sorry to say it’s just some mint and elfroot, but I’ve yet to come across any fancy Orlesian tea leaves from the local traders.”

     Hawke snorted, “Oh well, then I don’t think this will work at all. But in all seriousness, Merrill, this is lovely. Thank you. The flowers are a lovely touch, too—daisies, I think.”

     Merrill’s face flushed a bit, and she played with her robe’s frayed hem shyly. “Yes. I saw them earlier, and I thought—“

     “—of Varric.” Hawke finished with a sigh. “Me too. But where did you get the glass? I don’t recognize it.”

     Merrill sat down, careful not to spill the tea, and explained.

     While they were in a nearby town trading for the last of their building materials—a few panes of thick Serault glass, longer nails, and other bits and pieces—Merrill eyed a pretty glass bottle among a pile of scraps. It was mostly clear, but with red and blue blotches that couldn’t be washed out, and a warped neck. Merrill wasn’t sure why she’d noticed it all, or why it called to her, but it did.

     She gingerly grasped it, pulling it free from the mound, and turned to offer the old woman who owned the cart a few coppers for it—but she was refused. “Take it,” the woman smiled, showing how few teeth she still had. “It’s not every day I get to witness young love. So, please take it, and my thanks, for making an old crone happy.” Merrill saw that Hawke was finishing her business with the young man across the way, and so quickly (but carefully) placed the bottle into her satchel, nodding her thanks.

     “…and that’s what happened,” Merrill finished.

     The tea had gone cold in the time that it had taken to tell her story, but Hawke didn’t care.

     “Young love, huh?” She mused, wrapping her fingers around the few silver hairs that had fallen in front of her eyes. “Well, I don’t know if I’m still so young, but the sentiment was nice.”

     Merrill playfully shoved Freya’s shoulder. “Hey! Don’t say that, _vhenan._ You know you’re still as beautiful and wonderful as ever.”

     “To you, maybe.”

     “Yes, to me. And to anyone lucky enough to lay eyes on you.”

     Hawke chuckled at the fierce devotion Merrill still showed. “Okay, okay. I believe you but–” she placed her cup back on the tray and set the whole thing on the floor beside her, “—can you prove it?”

     It was Merrill’s turn to be taken aback a bit by the intensity of her words.

     She leaned forward to kiss Hawke gently, but with as much heart as she could manage.

     “Yes.”

     Beside them, the end of the day’s watery sunlight came through the window, and fell against the makeshift vase. The wall—and their intertwined bodies–were painted with shades of blue and red, as if someone had splattered watercolors all over. And the only sounds were sighs and distant dogs barking.


	11. Bestiary of the Free Marches -- General (F!Hawke/ Merrill)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freya Hawke, along with Merrill, Isabela, and Fenris, face a dragon in the Bone Pit.

Bestiary of The Free Marshes – Fenris/Hawke/Isabela/Merrill

\---

“If you had told me,” Isabela dove for cover, “that we would have to end this week fighting a dragon, I would’ve laughed in your face.”

The dragon roared, shaking the ground with its steps.

Fenris gripped his sword tightly, his markings glowing fiercely.

“How do you want to proceed?”

Freya swallowed, peaking out briefly from behind their boulder, then ducking back down. She tapped her fingers and toes, eyes darting about wildly.

“Hawke?” Merrill put her small hand on her arm. “We just have to come up with a plan. We can do it. I know we can.”

Fenris and Isabela looked less confident, but nodded all the same.

Freya swallowed again, urging her mouth to be anything other than bone dry.

She smiled. _Bone dry. The Bone Pit._

“What’re you so happy about?” Isabela raised her eyebrows.

“Because I’ve got a plan. Also a joke, but I’ll tell you later…assuming we’re not dead.”

The ground shook beneath them even more violently as the dragon searched for its prey.

“Merrill, when you found that bestiary, it said that dragons have good eyesight, but poor senses of smell. So maybe we focus on blinding it?”

Merrill paused, “Well yes, theoretically. But that was only one specific type of dragon, I think. I’m not sure if it would apply to this one.”

Fenris groaned, “Assuming it does, how are we going to manage that?”

Freya turned to Isabela. “Do you still have those smoke bombs we picked up?”

Isabela grinned, digging around in her tunic. “Of course. A girl always comes prepared.”

“I don’t want to know where you were keeping that.” Fenris rolled his eyes.

Isabela just winked.

Freya took the small balls of compressed powder and pulled an arrow from her quiver. “Now, we just need something to connect them.”

“Here,” Merrill smiled, “Allow me.”

With a brief wave of her hands, small vines grew from the scorched earth.

Freya pressed a quick kiss to her cheek. “Merrill, darling, you are brilliant.”

She pulled the vines from the ground and wrapped the smoke bomb as tightly as she could around the shaft. It wiggled a bit, but it would have to do.

Freya frowned down at it. _One shot._

It would have to do.

She fixed it to her bowstring, inhaling deeply.

“Now, when this is loosed, I need you all to run for the pass. No matter if it strikes the target or not. You get the hell out, understood?”

Her companions nodded.

“May fortune favor you,” Fenris said, bending down into a crouch.

“It’s gone awfully quiet, hasn’t it?” Merrill squeaked.

“Oh shit. Hawke, now!” Isabela pointed at the dragon looming not far from them. “It’s found us!”

Freya stood, and with one fluid movement, pulled back to her bow to its full draw.

“Go!” She cried, letting her arrow fly.

The others took off at a sprint, while she worried her lip. Where had it gone? Had it hit the mark?

The beast let fly a horrifying scream; the arrow had lodged itself above its right nostril, spewing black smoke all about.

_Not what I wanted, but it’ll do._

Freya’s eyes scanned for an opening amidst all the dragon’s thrashing.

In rage and confusion, it stomped around, swinging its claws madly.

Charred tree stumps and stones alike were cracked and splintered, flying here and there under its powerful blows.

Hawke crept forward, crouched behind a rock.

The dragon roared anew, flapping its wings, and she clutched her head in pain.

Her ears were ringing, and debris flew into her face, making gashes across her brow.

Freya wiped the blood from her forehead and inhaled quickly.

_Now or never!_

She saw her friends at the top of the path, waiting, and made a dash for them.

The dragon swiped at her again, and she rolled away just in time, losing her quiver from the blow.

Her hands stung from the scrapes of her landing, but she pushed herself to stand, fueled by adrenaline.

Her head pounded, and her blood sang in her ears, but Freya felt more truly alive than she had in the past few years.

She grinned madly, running at a full tilt toward the path.

_If I can only get there, I’ll be safe. If I can get there, I’ll be safe. I’ll be safe. I’ll be safe. I’ll be—_

The smoke had worn off.

The dragon’s eyes narrowed, spotting Freya quickly, and it raced forward, heat prickling behind its tongue.

“Hawke!” Merrill screamed. “Watch out!”

Freya made the mistake of looking over her shoulder and tripped over a fallen branch.

She fell to the ground in a heap.

Behind her, the dragon circled closer, tendrils of smoke seeping out of its mouth.

Freya moaned and tried to sit up.

Had it always been this hot?

Her eyes widened and she dove for cover, covering her head with her arms.

But the searing flames never came. The pain never came.

She pried her eyes open, and saw Merrill standing before her, staff extended.

All around her shone a pale blue light, rippling the air, with the smell of a storm before lightning strikes.

The dragon’s mighty fire was curved around it, slightly warming them.

“Now, let’s be having you!” Isabela crowed, tossing two daggers in quick succession. One of them struck the dragon in the left eye, oozing vitreous fluid and blood.

“Heh,” she smiled triumphantly. “Arse.”

The dragon raged again, thrashing in pain.

Merrill twirled her staff with a flourish and entangled its legs in thick, crawling vines.

The beast tripped and tumbled, flailing.

“Fenris, now!” She cried.

He flew forward, swinging his sword above his head in an arc.

“Fall!” He cried, lodging his blade in the dragon’s skull.

It made one last attempt to grab at him, but it was too late; the sword sunk deeper, and the dragon fell into a heap, dead.

Fenris grunted with effort, pulling the sword from the animal.

He stepped back and regarded it. It somehow looked smaller in death.

“You put up a good fight. I hope you know peace.”

Isabela snorted. “You do realize that that _thing_ just tried to kill all of us, right?

Merrill helped Freya to sit up, pressing a handkerchief to her still-bleeding head.

“It didn’t know better. We were invaders in its home.”

Fenris wiped down his blade. “For once, I agree with you, mage.”

Isabela rolled her eyes. “Well, whatever your opinion, I am officially disgusting.”

Her tunic was covered in muck and blood, and torn in places that made it even more revealing than usual.

“I don’t know,” Freya smirked. “It could be a new look for you.”

“You almost get me fried, _and_ you ruin my clothes. You owe me, Hawke.”

Freya stood, clutching her side with a grimace. “If I have anything left after paying the healers, I will buy you a new hat. Deal?”

Isabela grumbled, “I guess so. But why get medicine when you have the Hanged Man? A good night of drinking will see you back to fighting fit in no time.”

She passed a small hip flask to her.

Freya took it but raised an eyebrow. “Wasting your precious Antivan stuff on me? I thought you were angry.”

“Well, you did almost die on us. I was really…worried, you know?” She swallowed. “I mean, who’s going to let me cheat at cards if you get toasted?”

Freya laughed softly and took a deep swig, wincing, then handed it to Fenris, who did the same.

“Well, don’t drink it all!” Isabela took it from his grasp and put it back in her pouch.

Merrill pouted. “I didn’t get any.”

Freya patted her on the shoulder. “Got to walk before you run, Merrill. Let’s start off with something a bit harder than ale.”

Merrill nodded thoughtfully. “Oh, right. Good idea. I’d like to remember tonight.”

Isabela laughed, “Where’s the fun in that? We just survived being attacked by a giant dragon. Let’s party when we get back!”

Freya looped her arm over Merrill’s shoulder, and they started slowly back up the path.

“Maybe a bath first?” Fenris sniffed, recoiling in disgust. “I’m standing downwind.”

The others nodded.

“With fancy soaps?” Merrill asked hopefully.

“So much soap.” Freya sighed.


	12. Bent Lockpick -- (F!Hawke/ Isabela / Merrill)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Isabela and Merrill stage a B&E...but it's not illegal if it's all in good fun.

“Do you think she’ll mind us coming in like this?” Merrill whispered a bit too loudly, eyes darting around the empty square.

“Shh, Kitten.” Isabela hissed, sticking her tongue out in concentration. “It’ll all be fine. It’s not like we’re doing anything wrong.”

“Well, I think Aveline wouldn’t agree with that. Isn’t this er—breaking and mentoring… _breaking and entering!_ ”

Isabela giggled softly, wiggling the lockpick around more. “Well, she doesn’t know the first meaning of fun, and it’s not technically breaking and entering if we’re setting up a surprise party.”

“It isn’t?”

“Aw, damn it.”

“What, did I say something wrong?”

Isabela grumbled. “No, it’s this damn lockpick. It’s all bent out of shape and useless now. Do you have a plan B?”

Merrill grinned, gesturing to the window by the back garden.

“Sandal keeps it open to let the fresh air in at night.”

“And now us, brilliant job, Kitten!”

The two skulked off to the side of the manor, tiptoeing through the little plot of land Freya liked to grow flowers in.

“I think I stepped in something.” Merrill hissed.

“Does it smell like Mabari poo?”

“Erm…no, I don’t think so.”

“Then don’t worry about it too much.”

“Okay. Do you see the latch?”

“No, where—”

Merrill created a small flicker of flame in the palms of her hands and it danced by the window.

“Ah, thanks. There it is. Got you!”

Isabela stretched her arm in and propped the window up, motioning for Merrill to follow.

“I got it, come on.”

The two carefully closed the window behind them, cackling softly at their good fortune.

All of a sudden, there came a snuffling and soft woof from the kitchens.

Merrill hissed. “It’s Max, hide!”

Isabela motioned to the heavy velvet drapes, and they tried to conceal themselves as quickly as possible.

But Merrill’s bare toes peaked out and Max found them, licking them with his wet, rough tongue.

“Bad dog, shoo.” Isabela pulled the curtains back.

Max tilted his head with a whine.

“Don’t pretend you can’t understand me. We’re planning a very good surprise for Hawke, and we don’t want you to ruin it.”

Max sighed and hanged his head, shuffling off to flop in front of the dwindling fire.

“Some guard dog you are, letting all sorts of criminal elements into my home.” Freya’s voice echoed down the stairwell.

“Oh, shit.” Isabela bit her lip.

Merrill piped up. “No, it’s not criminal if you’re doing a nice thing, Isabela told me!”

Freya strode down the stairs, arms crossed over her silk nightgown.

“Did she now? I should’ve known; I thought it was too quiet.”

Isabela elbowed her in the side. “What she meant to say, was that I forgot my hat here last week, and I didn’t want to bother you. We were in the neighborhood, so we thought we’d just stop by. No harm done.”

Merrill nodded emphatically.

Freya sniffed and scratched at her backside.

“Well…I’m sure you’re lying, I’m just not sure what about. But I’m really too tired to give a shit right now, so I’m going back to bed. Whatever… _mischief_ you’re up to, just don’t leave a mess.”

She gave a mock salute and trudged back up the stairs with a yawn.

“Wow, that was amazing, Isabela.” Merrill crowed. “You know, I think we really fooled her.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, so I haven't updated this in quite some time. What are some ideas you have for future items or pairings? Let me know and I'll give it a whirl. Thanks for reading! : )


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